Page 16 of Stuck With the Best Man

“I’m not aballerina.”

“Apologies. A real ballet dancer, I meant to say.”

I’m vaguely aware that several people have noticed the small scene I’m making by so blatantly refusing to take the hand of the handsome, oh-so-wonderful Ben Hawthorne. Which would be worse? Standing up and walking away, or accepting one single dance?

I wonder if Gram slipped any more stones into his pockets. I wonder if he even knows that one of those stones was a ruby and the other was a crystal known to attract love and romance. It’s a pretty clear sign, and very obvious meddling on Gram’s part. With any luck, he chucked the stones onto the beach at the picnic yesterday and hasn’t thought of them since.

He’s good at things like that.

With a heavy sigh, I choose the path of least resistance and place my hand into his waiting palm. He smiles victoriously and guides me to the center of the dance floor, where numerous other couples are swaying to the rhythm of an old James Taylor song.

Eva, wrapped in Sebastien’s arms, catches my eye and winks when she notices me with Ben. I roll my eyes.

Ben rests his hand on my waist and clasps my hand with his other. I place my free hand on his shoulder, unable to stop myself from having impeccable waltzing posture, and then I let him guide the dance.

Unfortunately, dancing with him isn’t horrible. He smells nice. Whatever cologne he’s wearing is smoky and spicy and heady without being too overwhelming. Plus, his hair is doing that annoying thing where it looks all mussed and handsomely tangled.

He’s dreadfully gorgeous. It makes me sick.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“Being sick to my stomach.”

To my surprise, Ben laughs. Loudly. “Ouch.”

“Why do you always laugh when I insult you?”

“What else should I do? Cry?”

“That would be nice.”

Annoyingly, he pulls me closer. Even more annoyingly, I let him.

“I know exactly who you are, Ruby Sullivan,” he murmurs, his mouth close to my ear.

I tense in his arms, ready to bolt the second he reveals the mortifying truth that he’s been pranking me this entire time. That he actually does remember everything about that day at the Strand and he thinks I’m adorably pathetic for still being so upset about it. How sweet and sad I am for thinking that I could actually keep the attention of Ben Hawthorne!

I take a deep breath. “Really? Who am I?”

“You’re a woman who has worked extremely hard to get where she is. You’re ambitious and focused, and maybe a little cutthroat. You don’t like being told what to do, unless, of course, you’re in the studio and adhering to the critiques of thepremier maître de ballet. You value rigorous work ethic above all else, Ruby, which is exactly why you hate me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You look at me and you see a man who has had everything handed to him. Even my position on the Board of Directors was handed to me, albeit grudgingly, thanks to my family legacy. I haven’t worked nearly as hard as you have, and I’m not too proud to admit it.”

“That’s not—”

“But,” he interjects gently, still holding me so unbearably, wonderfully close. “I want you to know that I admire you for the way you dislike me. It’s refreshing. It reminds me that I’m not nearly as impressive as others believe I am, and I’m grateful for that healthy dose of humility.That’swhy I smile when you insult me. Because it means that there’s at least one person out there who sees me for what I am, and yet can still tolerate sharing a dance with me. I must not be that bad, after all. It’s good to know.”

“You certainly love to hear yourself talk,” I mutter.

He chuckles. I pretend to ignore the way his hand on my waist dips ever so slightly lower.

The song changes, but it’s still mellow enough that the couples around us keep dancing at a slow tempo. For some reason, I don’t let go of him.

I’m trying to keep my breathing steady. For all his pretty words and grand speeches, Ben still has absolutely no idea who I actually am. He’s spouting nonsense—the sort of foolish word vomit that might make another girl dizzy and dazzled, but not me.

“You think you have me all figured out,” I tell him. We’re so close that our cheeks are within an inch or two of brushing against each other. I’m finding it hard to remember that there are other people in this room—other people in this world.

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